Karen
A. VandenBos
Karen A. VandenBos
Karen A VandenBos was born on a warm July morn in Kalamazoo, MI.
As a child she loved books and would much rather be inside reading than
outside playing.
In high school Karen thrived in journalism where she was a staff reporter
on the school newspaper and was editor of her high school creative arts
journal. While her plans were to go to college and complete a degree
in journalism and creative writing, life had a funny way of throwing her
a curve ball. and she worked at a local hospital in a variety of positions
for over 30 years.
When retirement came along she landed on her feet back in the world
of writing and she found that even dormant dreams are just waiting
to be called forward.
Karen has a PhD in Holistic Health where a course in shamanism
taught her to travel between two worlds. Her writing marries fiction
and storytelling with nuggets of truth.
She can be found unleashing her imagination in two online writing groups.
She is married to husband Nate who is an artist and they have two cats.
Karen continues to love books, enjoys nature and photography.
Her writing has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal,
Blue Heron Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, One Art: a journal
of poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Ekphrastic Review, Southern Arizona Press,
MacQueen's Quinterly and others.
As a child she loved books and would much rather be inside reading than
outside playing.
In high school Karen thrived in journalism where she was a staff reporter
on the school newspaper and was editor of her high school creative arts
journal. While her plans were to go to college and complete a degree
in journalism and creative writing, life had a funny way of throwing her
a curve ball. and she worked at a local hospital in a variety of positions
for over 30 years.
When retirement came along she landed on her feet back in the world
of writing and she found that even dormant dreams are just waiting
to be called forward.
Karen has a PhD in Holistic Health where a course in shamanism
taught her to travel between two worlds. Her writing marries fiction
and storytelling with nuggets of truth.
She can be found unleashing her imagination in two online writing groups.
She is married to husband Nate who is an artist and they have two cats.
Karen continues to love books, enjoys nature and photography.
Her writing has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal,
Blue Heron Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, One Art: a journal
of poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Ekphrastic Review, Southern Arizona Press,
MacQueen's Quinterly and others.
Traveling Lightly
Take only what fits in your pocket.
The cat's eye marble you found on the
playground, the penny flattened by
the train. Add some string, a match or
two and the stub of a pencil. Toss in
some memories, a dice to roll and a
dream. Collect a few pebbles and some
scraps of paper in case you need to
write a line or two. Let the crumbs
from your grandmother's cookies settle
between your treasures and use them
to find your way back home.
Mac the Red
Macintosh Red, the Mac,
your round belly covered
in a kilt of red and green.
You hang like an ornament
from the tree where I reach
up and pluck you, hungering
for a taste of your secrets.
I think of my own buried
just below the surface.
Like you I am easily bruised.
I take a knife and slice a piece
of your tender white flesh, your
flavor both sweet and tart and I
savor the juice dripping down my
chin as autumn arrives, bobbing.
The nights are clear and cold, the
crunch of the apple as crisp as the
air and I wonder at the magic of
the star held in your core.
Like you I am easily bruised.
Take only what fits in your pocket.
The cat's eye marble you found on the
playground, the penny flattened by
the train. Add some string, a match or
two and the stub of a pencil. Toss in
some memories, a dice to roll and a
dream. Collect a few pebbles and some
scraps of paper in case you need to
write a line or two. Let the crumbs
from your grandmother's cookies settle
between your treasures and use them
to find your way back home.
Mac the Red
Macintosh Red, the Mac,
your round belly covered
in a kilt of red and green.
You hang like an ornament
from the tree where I reach
up and pluck you, hungering
for a taste of your secrets.
I think of my own buried
just below the surface.
Like you I am easily bruised.
I take a knife and slice a piece
of your tender white flesh, your
flavor both sweet and tart and I
savor the juice dripping down my
chin as autumn arrives, bobbing.
The nights are clear and cold, the
crunch of the apple as crisp as the
air and I wonder at the magic of
the star held in your core.
Like you I am easily bruised.
The Council of Crones
We are born from the wombs of many mothers
holding memories of pointed hats and witches
burning, all of us matriarchs, seers and women
of old. We build altars of twigs and acorns and
tend to the moss covered rocks where the maidens
and mothers come to bleed. The moon is known
as our grandmother and the stars as our guides.
We carry the secrets of transformation in baskets
made of seaweed and give away the knowledge
we have honed. We are the keepers of the stories,
the teachers of magic and sacred law and speak the
language of the crows. As shape shifters we see with
crossed eyes and know that all things are born of
women. We breathe in power and exhale intuition as
we stir the ashes and smudge our bodies with the
wings of those who have learned how to fly.
Bowing in reverence to those women of wisdom
who have walked before us, we too must enter the
Council of Crones.
We are born from the wombs of many mothers
holding memories of pointed hats and witches
burning, all of us matriarchs, seers and women
of old. We build altars of twigs and acorns and
tend to the moss covered rocks where the maidens
and mothers come to bleed. The moon is known
as our grandmother and the stars as our guides.
We carry the secrets of transformation in baskets
made of seaweed and give away the knowledge
we have honed. We are the keepers of the stories,
the teachers of magic and sacred law and speak the
language of the crows. As shape shifters we see with
crossed eyes and know that all things are born of
women. We breathe in power and exhale intuition as
we stir the ashes and smudge our bodies with the
wings of those who have learned how to fly.
Bowing in reverence to those women of wisdom
who have walked before us, we too must enter the
Council of Crones.
Ghost Writer
She stepped into the vintage shop set
back in an alley off the main street of
the village where she lived. She had no
idea what she was looking for when her
eyes landed on the antique typewriter
nestled among the old hats, bonnets and
yellowed gloves. As she touched the keys
she was transported to an antique desk set
in the library of an old Victorian mansion.
Her fingers found a rhythm and her heart
and mind worked together to weave a story
she had held too long inside. Hours or
perhaps days passed as the story poured
forth and she had no idea that time travel
moved to a different clock. As she typed
“The End” the dust settled once again
around the old typewriter and she found
herself back in the shop as if nothing had
happened. As she left and walked back
down the alley, she did not notice the ghost
who followed, unaware of the passage of time.
Such stories!
ReplyDeleteKaren's poems touch the universal--the archetypes within us--and does so with such precise, beautiful language. We can't help but be moved and delighted.
ReplyDelete